Jerusalem Diary

Family, Faith, Fears . . . They Were All Contained In This Passage To The Holy Land.

April 24, 2005|By Elaine Sharfe Special Correspondent

Here we are again, waiting on Air Canada Flight 086 to depart for Israel. I can't count the number of times my husband, Sherry, and I have done this. So many that I almost forget to be nervous.

We're off to see our children and grandchildren. Maybe I'll do some sightseeing. I love to poke around new corners in Jerusalem, although I haven't played explorer since the beginning of the second Intifada. Hopefully what I'm seeing on the plane is a reflection of what's happening in Israel. Two years ago, there were five passengers in business class; tonight, the cabin is full.

We arrive, and ... surprise! We're not the only plane on the tarmac, and we've landed at a new airport. Instead of a bus, there's a jetway.

A wall is growing to our right as we walk, separating us from a hallway that's winding upward. The wall is Jerusalem stone and reminds me of the Kotel (Hebrew for The Wall).

We rent a car and drive up to Jerusalem. It's almost Shabbat and parts of the city are already at rest. When we pull up to our hotel, I see that most of the guests are already dressed for Shabbos. The Renaissance is a Haradi (religious) hotel. I'm dressed appropriately, having flown in a long skirt and long-sleeve, high-collared blouse, but before getting out of the car, I pull out the hat that I've kept in my carry-on and put it on. I recognize the guards at the door and they smile as though we're old friends. The desk clerks are the same, and so is the man in the hotel shop. The lobby is filled with people. This is new.

While Sherry registers, I wander by the shop windows to look at the familiar collection of jewelry and Judaica. There's a new display catering to the Christian tourists who have continued to come to Israel, in spite of the Intifada.

Saturday is cold and rainy. The Jerusalem Post states that although hotel occupancy is still below 50 percent of what is considered "normal," last year hotel stays rose over 45 percent.

After Shabbat we drive to the Jerusalem Mall. All the city seems to be here and there's a long, slow line to get into the parking lot. Two young soldiers who don't look old enough to be carrying guns are checking the trunks of every car. Another soldier stands at the entrance door and asks to see inside my purse.

When the mall was built several years ago, a cousin had said to me: "No one will go there. Israelis don't do malls." She should be here tonight to see all the mothers pushing strollers; dads carrying toddlers on their shoulders; teenagers showing belly skin; young couples holding hands; religious women in long skirts; Arab women, never alone but in groups of two; men with kipot (yarmulkes); men without kipot; uniformed soldiers; a few men in wheelchairs, some on crutches.

I head for the jewelry store called Michel Negrin. Her jeweled beaded earrings, flowered bracelets and multitiered necklaces, all in bright shades of pink, blue, red, orange and green, can be found in Nieman Marcus and Saks. Sherry leans against a railing outside the store waiting with some other husbands while I fight the room full of people to get to the displays on the wall. I wait in line to pay, and am beside a group of women who are from Boca Raton. One of them is buying three necklaces, four bracelets, six pairs of earrings, four pins and a dozen packets of gift cards.

Sunday, I'm on my own, and decide to go downtown. I was on Jaffa Road four years ago, an hour before the Sbarro bombing. I haven't wanted to go back since, and I'm not the only one who stopped shopping here. The war decimated the area known as Nachalah Shiva and Ben-Yehuda Street, both rivulets that feed off Jaffa, and business declined by 80 percent.

Walking into town I pass shops that are still boarded up. With the exception of a place that sells Israeli stamps, a shop specializing in black hats for Haradi men and The Iran Bazaar, which sells carpets, most of the shops on Ben-Yehuda vend cheap clothes, pots and pans. I find some of the missing stores on other streets.

The action is on Jaffa Road, especially in the stores that sell expensive Judaica and gold and silver jewelry. I hear the same thing in every store: "We're online if you want to order anything else later on."

The Kipa Man (man who sells yarmulkes) is on Jaffa Road, in a tiny shop that can't hold more than two customers at a time. He has the largest array of kipot I've ever seen -- velvet, knit, crochet with fits for infants, big heads and bald ones. They come in shades of red, purple, brown, gray and green, and swirls, squares and lines of mixed color. He's friendly, and with every purchase he wishes me: "Mazel and good health." I hear that at least seven different times.